Excerpt from River of the Angry Moon, by Mark Hume and Harvey Thommasen Published in Canada by Greystone Books, Douglas & McIntyre and in the United States by the University of Washington Press. A heavy, wet snow has fallen during the night, spreading a humped, white blanket across the estuary. Here and there clumps of tired, blonde grass push through. A flock of mallards bursts from a tidal channel, scattering snow crystals in the air like pollen. Far out on the flats a drift of trumpeter swans stirs and shifts as an eagle circles overhead. Along the river, as the morning warms, clumps of snow drop from the tree branches, vanishing as they become water. The snow eats the sound of the river as it passes over its stone bed; it eats the sound of the forest. Driving up the highway, traveling East from Bella Coola, I set out on the last fishing trip of the year. Somehow I know that today I will find a steelhead that is buried somewhere in the river, its heart beating like a drum. In the back of the truck I can hear the tip of my fly rod tapping against the window as it picks up the vibrations of the road. It seems to be chattering with anticipation. Every fishing trip starts with a sense of optimism, but sometimes there is a deeper level of certainty, a predator’s instinct that comes from a vision of a steelhead rising through layers of green water to take your fly. I have seen steelhead stand on their heads to pluck one of my flies from the bottom and I have seen them tilt up to take a floating dry fly with an audible snap of their jaws. I have seen...

Story by Harvey Thommasen with Photography by Mark Hume The Tlell River is a legendary salmon river that flows into Hecate Strait on the East Coast of Graham Island, which is part of the Haida Gwaii archipelago off British Columbia’s northwest coast. The river flows gently under Highway 16, which links the small towns of Queen Charlotte City and Masset, marking the protected southern tip of Naikoon Provincial Park, which runs north through bog and ancient forest, all the way to Rose Spit where, on a clear day you can see Alaska. The river is located about 22 kilometers southeast of the tiny community of Port Clements whose claim to fame includes being home of the golden spruce, which was chopped down by a crazed environmentalist, and of an albino raven, which managed to electrocute itself on a power pole and now sits stuffed in the local museum. The Tlell is one of the most popular fishing rivers on Haida Gwaii (previously known as the Queen Charlotte Islands) mainly because in the fall it has a fabled run of big, northern coho. There are also sea run cutthroat in the spring and steelhead at various times, but the Tlell is best known for its heavy shouldered, hooked nose salmon, which come steaming straight in from the Gulf of Alaska. Most people on Haida Gwaii go to the Yakoun River if they want steelhead. But the Tlell, and farther to the south the Copper River on Moresby Island, are the two top coho destintions. The Tlell is also one of those rivers British Columbia is famous for. Fisherman from all around the world visit, perhaps drawn more by the myth than the reality, for it is a moody river, with an unpredictable run, than can...

Story by Mark Hume with Photos by Nick Didlick Through the murky window of the trailer the parts strewn on the deck and scattered around the yard slowly come in to focus. They are bits and pieces from float planes and appear to have been scavenged from wrecks. There are more parts, newer, half spilled from boxes on the desk where the battered coffee pot sits. The pilot pours himself another cup, his third, looks out at the sky through bleary eyes and shakes his head. There are old pilots and bold pilots, but no old, bold pilots, he says, repeating a clich at least as time worn as he is. I sigh. Look at the beat up old couch where he has apparently been sleeping, peer down into the cup filled with a corrosive substance he says is coffee, and wonder for a moment what the hell we have gotten into. And then I think about the 20 hours of driving that got us here. There is no turning back now. We drove until we ran out of pavement, came to the end of a rutted dirt road and we are flying in as soon as the weather breaks. We came for big trout. And we are ignoring the graveyard of discarded aircraft parts, the ramshackle state of the pilot’s quarters, and the warning light that keeps telling me a guy who can’t keep his coffee pot clean probably can’t keep his fuel filter clean either. I turn to Harvey, who first tracked down the rumours of Lake X, and to Nick, who has travelled all the way from Vancouver with me on the promise of big, big fish. I think we should still try it, I say. They nod. No need for...